*

…I wait until I see Wen’s shoulders shaking with grief then go and collect her.

As I said earlier, I do not really know why she has to keep punishing herself in this way.

Foolishly, we walk back along the tops heading straight into the wind, which rips into us viciously its cold-laced edges buffeting, stinging and biting into our exposed flesh mercilessly.

The Telling Stone plays the same trick as the Mark Stone from earlier, looking twice its normal height from a distance and then halving in size as we move up close.

“How do they do that?”

“I really don’t know but maybe it’s not them at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe it’s us.”

“Maybe it is.”

“You have to put your hands on the stone.”

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